Molly

Someday you’ll read on Facebook or in this blog spot that we had to say good-bye to our cat, Molly, but not today!

In April we lost our cat Beau to cancer. I still wake up in the morning missing him. In May, Molly was diagnosed with kidney disease. (Note to self: Don’t have two cats the same age.) We noticed she wasn’t eating and was losing weight. The blood test the vet ran revealed that she was in serious need of immediate fluid injections and recommended an emergency vet for overnight IV treatment. You don’t want to know what that cost.

For the next couple of weeks we alternated infusions in the vet’s office and at home (and no, we aren’t medically trained!) with blood tests to see how she was responding. This meant additional expenses and many trips in the dreaded cat carrier for Molly.

She did respond to treatment and started eating again. Still, after a weekend of praying and crying (me) about what to do for her, we decided that we didn’t believe in extending her life beyond its natural conclusion, especially since we’re not signing up for extreme measures when our time comes. If that was it for her, we would just love her and let her go when it was time. A hard decision, but one that gave us and her peace.

We informed the vet that Molly would now be in palliative care. We would watch her to make sure she wasn’t experiencing any discomfort, and hope to bring her in for her final trip to the vet before she suffered any dire consequences from the disease.

For about a week we watched her closely. She sat and stared at us with a “cat stink eye” as if to say, “Why’s everyone staring at me all the time?” Given that we thought she only had a few days left, we relaxed the cat “house rules” for her. I let her wander out with me when I watered the pots on the downstairs patio, and you’d think she’d gone through the wardrobe into Narnia so thrilled was she to be sniffing around in forbidden territory. We also left the bedroom door open all night so she could come and go at will, because after all, the poor dear didn’t have long to be with us.

That was three months ago and Molly will celebrate her 15th birthday this week! In style, I might add, because it didn’t take long for her to not only appreciate her new privileges, but to actually expect and demand them! How dare I try to sneak out to water pots without her. She protests loudly from the other side of the glass door if not allowed to accompany me. And not only is she in our bedroom all night, she jumps on the bed in the early morning light, meowing and poking at me until I get up to feed her the soft kidney-care food she’s come to love. We are enjoying her in spite of her newfound diva status, however, and she’s reveling in our extra attention.

Who knows why we have all been given this sweet time together? I prayed, “Lord, please heal her or take her.” I didn’t want to have to make another one of those painful last trips to the vet so soon after taking Beau. It may be a miraculous answer to prayer that she’s still here.

And we don’t know if this will make any feline medical journals, but we’re pretty sure some cats have at least 10 lives. We’re enjoying Molly’s 10th, and we’re glad we don’t have to say good-bye just yet.

Happy Birthday, Miracle Molly!

He had me at hello. From the moment I took him out of the cage at the adoption center at PetSmart and he wrapped his front paws around my neck and snuggled his head under my chin, I knew he was my cat. What I didn’t know was that he was a one-woman cat, and I would be his woman.

At PetSmart his name was Jellybean, but that just didn’t seem to fit. I had gone cat shopping because I read an article that a solo cat might become depressed. I’d looked over at our cat, Molly, and assessed she was. What she needed was a beau! So Jellybean became Beau Brummett.

As it turned out, the two cats never really bonded, and truth be told, Beau bullied Molly a bit. But for 13 years they enjoyed one another’s company from a distance, established their own rules about whose couch was whose, and had a workable détente.

We had to let go of Beau three weeks ago, and I’m just now able to write about him. It’s been a heartbreaking loss, not just because I loved him, but because he loved me so completely and so unconditionally, and there was nothing I could do to save him. The third round of cancer was too much for all of us. He was only fourteen and a half so it seemed too soon to see him go, yet it was time.

This won’t be one of those tributes touting perfection, however. Beau’s biggest character flaw was that he was afraid of small children, possibly the victim of being carried around in a neck hold by a toddler before we adopted him. As a result, he was labeled “the mean cat” by all of our grandkids because if he couldn’t avoid them, he hissed at them. I know their parents wondered why we kept him around.

We did because of who he was the rest of time. Part Maine Coon, Beau came when called, was trainable, and loyal beyond description. He was the most excellent of cats in terms of his cat-like characteristics. Curious to a fault, he got shut up in the pantry more than once while checking out the supply of cat food. He would be the first to jump into an empty box and found Christmas boxes especially fascinating.

And he was a quick learner. Just one leap off the second-story deck in an attempt to catch a hummingbird and he decided not to do that again!

He was the most affectionate animal I’ve ever been around. Often he would come up to me and put his front paws on my legs, look up at me with those big golden eyes, and want me to pick him up. I was putty in his paws, so most of the time when I was home he was in my arms, perched over my shoulder, or on my lap—even when I was at the computer.

We had two official snuggle times, right before my husband Jim and I went to sleep and first thing in the morning. He never missed one of them, and usually waited in the hallway from about 9:30 PM on to remind me it was time to go snuggle. Any wonder my arms have felt achingly empty? (Jim reminds me that he is willing to snuggle any time, but apologizes for not being fuzzy enough!)

I don’t know what else to say. I miss him. It hurts. I’ve always been sensitive to the grief people feel when losing a pet, but will be even more so now. I don’t want to compare this in any way to the deeper grief of losing a family member or close friend, but I did lose a close and loving companion. No doubt about it.

I’ve cried my way through three PetSmarts and the Humane Society where I went just to visit the cats. I don’t know why. There isn’t a cat alive who could replace Beau, and I know that. Besides it’s too soon to even try to love another cat. Somehow I just had to look.

And while Molly won’t snuggle (please! she just can’t be bothered) her “personal assistant” purr-sonality has her following me all over the house, and she is blossoming now that the whole house is hers. We love her, too, and she deserves to be queen for a while.

When I was praying over Beau for healing, and yes I did, I heard the Lord remind me, “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” To comfort me in my grief, He’s whispered, “Think of what a great gift he was to you, not what a great loss you feel now.” OK, Lord, I’ll try. But he was my buddy. My Beau.

To those readers who think they don’t like cats, may I say it’s just like any other bias. Get to know just one well, and you will change your opinion.